


Shrouds

by Castalle



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castalle/pseuds/Castalle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zargabaath didn't believe in ghost stories; it didn't stop him from living one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always thanks to my beta reader.

Zargabaath didn't believe in ghosts. Not the kind parents would tell to their children to give them a benign scare. True ghosts were creatures no longer carrying the burden of memory or conscience of whatever they once were; the remnants of memories were lost in death. All that remained was a hollow shell for mist to fill and twist into something that needed to be struck down again. It was as simple as that. 

No, Zargabaath didn't believe in ghosts, but that did little to hinder his books from insisting on falling out of the shelf whenever he was in his office. 

A heavy slam caused him to flinch, pen scrawling through the words he had just finished writing. Zargabaath gave himself a moment to recuperate from the sudden scare, knowing full well it was nothing worth such a reaction. Perhaps he was growing to be an alarmist after all. Zecht had always goaded that he worried far too much, even for a Magister. Of course, Zargabaath thought as he cleaned the spilled ink from his paper, look where he had ended up. 

The man looked up from the stack of papers at his desk, staring across the room at the thick text block that had dumped itself on the floor. A heavy sigh was followed by the sound of his chair scraping across the hardwood surface.

Three steps took him to the renegade tome; careful, slow movements bringing him down to kneel. Armor pinched at the back of his knees insistently, and he didn't maintain the squat for long. 

The fabric that had been drawn tightly over the front and back had at one time been vivid and smooth but was now torn and fraying; the thick gold lettering once printed on the spine well faded and barely legible. Zargabaath flipped a few pages open and allowed himself a small smile. Drace had insisted, several times, that he educate himself further on the occasional clash of law and ethics. 

~

 

“Must we do this again?”

Ghis' drawl was a sound so common in the conference hall that it bled through the walls even when he was long gone. Drace scoffed and slapped a heavy hand down on the table to demand his attention.

“Old age may have blunted your steel, Ghis, but surely even you can't continue being remiss to the injustice being done.”

Ghis held out a waiting hand, and the paper was placed in it. He brought it close to his face, squinting, and set it aside soon after.

“I see no fault here.”

Drace's chuckle echoed her clear derision. “Is a crime done for the right reason still a true crime?”

“Yes.” Ghis responded without a moment's hesitancy. 

“The law cannot be bent for your emotion's convenience. Surely you can recall the most basic of Akademy lessons.” Bergan chimed in, sitting adjacent to the elder Judge and sifting through a series of reports. Drace rolled her eyes, dismissing his words with a flippant wave of her hand. She turned to meet Zargabaath's wandering gaze, and she set her palms on the table, leaning towards him.

The two stared at each other for a few moments of uncertainty, until Drace nodded at him, urging him to respond.

“Well?” she asked, drawing Ghis' attention once again.

“Well?” Zargabaath echoed.

“Do you not see the injustice in this decision? To condemn someone for a crime forged out of necessity? The soldier was not in the wrong for disciplining their superior, especially when that officer's actions resulted in-”

“It's not my place, nor yours, to determine such a thing,” Zargabaath interrupted. Drace's eyes grew steely but she kept silent. “The law is the law. It is our duty to follow it, not to question it.”

“But extenuating circumstances-”

“Anyone cast under the threat of punishment can plead such a thing. We cannot make exceptions for a singular case.” He continued, shaking his head lightly at her. “After so many years, Drace, you'll understand. There is a time and a place for such passions, but it is not in these walls.”

Bergan half-suppressed a laugh, letting forth a quiet snicker. The other Judges cast glances at him, each with a varying degree of annoyance. Bergan was quick to quiet himself and return his eyes to reports, and Drace turned her attention back to Zargabaath. She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips hovered apart for barely a moment before closing. After a prolonged sigh the woman turned and walked away, leaving the case file abandoned beside the stacks of other various reports and documents to be sifted through at day's end.

Zargabaath watched her go, well past the heavy door slamming shut behind her. He took in a long breath, enjoying the heady scent of rich wood that made the conference hall somewhat tolerable.

“Did we disregard her too callously?” he asked, turning to look back at Ghis and Bergan. Ghis didn't bother to lift his eyes from another report as he shook his head, and Bergan gave a grunt of indifference.

“If it irks you so, then by all means give chase.” Ghis said, finally lifting his eyes to watch Zargabaath continue to gaze toward the door. A dull silence followed for several drawn out seconds, before Zargabaath elected to reach for the nearest report and sink further into his chair.

 

~

He refused to call it a ghost. Even when it was the same book - again and again, day after day - being flung from the shelf. He got tired of the constant interruption and at last took the book from his office one night, setting it in the trunk that held his old armor. The trunk was located in a storage wing several floors down from his office; he hoped the not-ghost would simply linger there along with it's favorite book.

Two days passed before his haunt would have no more of it: the rest of the books had been sent crashing down while he had taken an hour for lunch. He returned to a floor covered in his Akademy texts and law books, open pages carpeting it wall to wall. 

Very well, a ghost.

He returned to his trunk that evening, sitting down on top of it once he had the old, frayed textbook in hand. The lights hadn't been activated, and he allowed the setting sun to cast a dull bronze glow across the carpeted walls and floor. A set of ceremonial armor, cast in bronze and in desperate need of polish, was on a mannequin in the corner. Zargabaath stared at it as he held the book in his lap, remembering the opulence of the induction ceremony. Drace had refused to have a second set made just for the sake of tradition and had just taken her oaths in the same steel she died in – in stark contrast to Ghis and his ceremonial set that went with him to the grave. 

“So what then, ghost?” he asked quietly, voice dry in the spartan room. Rarely, if ever, was he in here; he had fashioned the room to be an oubliette in its own right. The air stank of old carpet and wood that needed replacing.  
He stared at the dark corner of the room, by the mannequin. Zargabaath wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he waited, book in hand. 

Minutes passed, the shadow of the window's edge slowly rising across the room as the sun set. Thick motes of light showed the floating dust and particles in the air, constantly swirling and moving in delayed response to Zargabaath's quiet, soft breaths. Out of the corner of his eye – at first he thought it was the sun reflecting off of the armor – but the light bent and contorted in a way that reminded him of mist.

Carefully Zargabaath watched as the swirling light coalesced and then broke away like falling water to fade before it hit the floor. It rose up once more and tried to build itself again, but struggled and failed. This went on for near half a minute until it finally gave up and faded away like a dying lamp, leaving Zargabaath to stare at the spot beside his armor where it had tried to take shape. It. Whatever it was, no – whoever it was, he corrected himself. And he knew exactly who it was.

“Drace...” he said quietly, feeling foolish even though no one else was there to judge him. He repeated her name, louder the second time. 

She must have heard. His eyes lingered on the spot beside his armor, then darted up, meeting the stony gaze of the deceased Magister, her body a flickering specter enshrouded in the light cast by the setting sun. They stared at each other for only a moment, but he could feel the weight of her gaze. It was a look that made him want to shrink back into the nearest corner and hunch up his shoulders. With unpleasant surprise, he realized as her visage began to fade out of the light, he had taken that very stance without realizing it.

Zargabaath took a moment to compose himself now that the spirit was gone. Spirit. That term better fit Drace, better fit any soul that remained in such a state. Still, her frustration with him was obvious, but what she was hoping to get out of throwing books at him, he had no idea.

A fortnight had passed with no further sign of his spirit, Drace's steely gaze lingering in his mind rather than in the setting sun's light.


	2. Chapter 2

Worrying was inherent to Zargabaath's nature, and even with the skystones fitted into the Ifrit that allowed it to conquer the jagd, he seemed unable to stop fidgeting. The nature of his mission too, he mused, wasn't helping either.

“Do you think they will greet us?” Larsa asked, wandering about the bridge as Zargabaath watched. The young Solidor Lord was growing taller, more and more he looked like his deceased brother. Only in appearance, the Judge was thankful, never in deeds. 

“Nay my liege, I doubt they would spare us a kind thought since the massacre,” the Judge responded, turning to look at the passing mountains beneath the windows of the massive ship. 

“Your judgment is sound, no doubt...” Larsa responded, a twinge of disappointment in his tone. Zargabaath knew the young Lord was ever an optimist, and was hoping for some closure with the clerics of Bur-Omisace. 

“Do you think it selfish? What we do?” the young man continued, ceasing his constant pacing and staring out the main cockpit window to the passing clouds below.

“A death marred in disgrace was still a death in service to the Empire. His family bears no fault, and closure is what they demand. I should think one could place this within the burden of duty, my Lord, rather than the privileges provided by it.”

“Yes. A burden. I am beginning to realize the truth of that word,” Larsa said quietly, then turned, heading out of the bridge as they began to hover over the Kiltian Temple. Even from this height Zargabaath could see the swaths of refugees below, many of them scattering for cover in the presence of the looming Ifrit. No doubt they still had vivid memories of the events three years prior. Larsa had thought it best to wait, and now Zargabaath hoped they hadn't traveled this far in vain.

An Atomos took them down to the summit and two acolytes were there to meet them. The mountain was eerily quiet. Zargabaath felt a sudden knot in his stomach as the Atomos ramp lowered and Larsa stepped out; not fear of danger or expectation of hostility, but the remnants of guilt hanging in the mountain like a heavy mist that would never be cleansed. 

“Larsa Ferrinas Solidor,” the young Lord introduced himself, bowing low. Zargabaath did the same, slowly, armor creaking once he dipped down too far. The clerics watched them silently, brows furrowed and eyes sharp.

“What business have you here?” the taller of the two Nu Mou asked, raising his head to look between Larsa and Zargabaath. Larsa faltered for a moment at the sharp tone, but recovered quickly with a trained calm.

“We only wish the recovery of the bodies of Imperial soldiers and Judge Magister Bergan, so that they may be buried in Archadian soil. Please permit me this act of dignity to our fallen countrymen. I realize the pain that His Honor the late Bergan inflicted upon your Temple, but it is my solemn hope that someday Archadia and your minis-”

“Down the path, at the end of the Paranima,” The Nu Mou grunted, pointing a stubby finger to the narrow canyon that lay further down the mountain. “By the frozen lake. Three rocks lay on the southern edge, their bodies are there. Take them and leave.”

The acolytes turned and began a slow walk back towards the Temple, leaving the two Archadians to stand together in silence. Larsa lowered his head, letting out a small sigh. A long pause lingered between the two that were left until he finally turned to face Zargabaath.

“Have their bodies exhumed... I go to speak with Gabranth. I wonder if Archadian aid would soften the blow dealt in years passed. Surely they need food, supplies, medicines: we can give them that.” 

“Permit me to speak candidly, my Lord.”

Larsa nodded at him. The Judge took in a raspy breath, looking out over the clouded peaks and the temple that rose to break the constant gale of cold air. “Be it in good faith, your charity, the people here suffer still from time gone. The scars of loved ones lost do not fade in such rapid passing. It would behoove you to wait, and let these wounds heal further on their own before reminding them of Archadian presence.”

Zargabaath felt an instant pang of regret; the look of embarrassment on Larsa's face quickly devolved to shame, and the youth nodded. “Yes... yes of course,” he said quickly, boarding the Atomos without a second glance to the summit. The Judge permitted himself a small sigh, the sound hidden within the confines of his helmet. Yes – he internally declared – dealing with the consequences of a sympathetic heart were best left to Gabranth. The man had better ways of explaining such things without turning the young man ashamed of his own good intentions.

~

The Ifrit hovered overhead, but Zargabaath kept his eyes to the cold, hard ground. Three soldiers worked to dig in the rocky soil, shovels uncooperative even with heavily armored boots ramming them down. The icy winds weren't helping – the soldiers would have to pause and cough or remove their helmets to blow their noses. Zargabaath knew it was uncouth of him, but he was grateful he was long past such banal tasks.

“Makes me wonder how they even got 'em buried in the first place...” one of the soldiers huffed, pausing to catch his breath. “Soil is so damn frozen we've only got down inches within the hour, Your Honor.”

Zargabaath made a small grunt, walking towards the three men. “Indeed but press on you must. Your countrymen await us to shepherd them back to warm Archadian soil where they might rest proper. Continue now, do not halt. The faster you work, the sooner we will be out of this cold.”

The soldiers intoned their agreement and returned to digging with renewed drive. Zargabaath watched them for a time, then turned to look over the frozen lake. The ice was dark with a harsh, sharp reflective edge that made it seem callous and unfriendly. With the winds punishing enough already, Zargabaath did his best to remain steadfast and refuse a groan when they began to blow harder. He cast a glance at his soldiers, the three of them digging on without pause. The Judge made a mental note to allow them respite from their duties on the route back to Archades. 

The winds quickened further, and Zargabaath felt the rough tug of his cape caught up in the powerful gale. He reached back and gathered it up under his arm to keep himself from being dragged further. Several moments passed in silence, his gaze wandering up to the Ifrit overhead. The judge felt yet another force upon him, but this was no tug of wind. He jerked to the side, nearly stumbling from the powerful apparition of mist that sprang from the snow beside him without warning. The mist's appearance was announced with a loud thrum, the echo of its presence reverberating throughout the chasm.

The soldiers halted and turned, watching as Zargabaath righted himself and looked about, searching every corner of the lake for signs of what may have caused the disturbance. 

“Continue digging, without pause,” he urged, turning back to the soldiers. They complied, leaving Zargabaath to wander towards the edge of the frozen lake, the snow he stepped across crunching loudly underfoot. He went still upon seeing yet another spring of mist rise from the surface of the lake, the strange aura spreading outwards and covering the entire surface within moments. The air distorted and grew foul with the stench of rotting flesh, even with the temperature well past freezing. 

The shout of his soldiers drew the Judge's attention, and he turned his gaze from the mist-drenched lake to the men.

“Your Honor, they're here!” the leader shouted over the rough winds. Zargabaath hadn't fully realized just how strong the gusts had grown over the course of just minutes. 

“Hurry along then, fetch more from the Atomos and have them assist in the exhumation,” he called back, pointing to the small airship near the entrance of the gorge. The soldiers went back to their task and Zargabaath stepped aside to allow space for the one who made his way back to the ship. 

The digging continued for nearly another hour, the conditions worsening despite the sun not even past its apogee. Zargabaath kept his eyes on the lake of mist that floated just yards from the burial site, wary to go any closer to it. Vivid shapes would appear without warning; a curved, sharp edge rising from the surface of the lake, needle-like protrusions extending out of it. These quick attempts to regain form and body were met with failure every time, yet they persisted. Once the exhumation was complete, Zargabaath finally moved to look upon what they had recovered.

The Judges and soldiers who had been present alongside Bergan were there – all slain – by the crazed Magister's own hand. Firsthand accounts from witnesses were unreliable, for what few there were. Bergan himself lay at the end of the row, his helmet on, unlike the rest of them. The acolytes had found the compassion within themselves to cover the soldier's faces with white shrouds and remove their helmets. The Magister remained entirely untouched, left as rotten and bare as he had been upon death. The armor he wore was discolored at some points along his chest and arms, and dark scorch marks lay along his hands and legs. 

The smell was overpowering now that all the corpses had been exhumed. Zargabaath would've thought them be naught but bones clad in armor by now, but their flesh persisted, even years after death. His attention was drawn to several soldiers who backed away from Bergan's corpse: A fledgling geyser of mist rose from the body, armor rattling as it convulsed violently.

“Steady now,” Zargabaath warned. “ Magicks remain but he is long dead. Bring the others to the Ifrit first, and order three of my Magi down to assist.” He stood still and watched as the soldiers edged back towards the bodies closest to Bergan. One by one they carried their countrymen back to the Atomos, removing their own helmets and bowing their heads for a small moment's silence once all of them were aboard. The Atomos' ramp lifted and shut, the skiff rising and turning along its ascent back to the Ifrit.

Zargabaath watched, standing near Bergan's shoulder. He looked back down to the body of the Judge, kneeling and removing his helmet, exposing his face to the brutal cold. The man was careful, slowly reaching to grasp the sides of Bergan's helm, carefully pulling it off and setting it aside. He winced, casting his eyes away at the grisly sight. Back when Bergan had been alive all he held in his heart for the man was anger, yet at the sight of what had become of him that ire was cast aside and he was beset with grief. Not overpowering grief, not grief like the death of Drace, but enough that he felt an urge to apologize to the mist-ridden corpse. 

He reached over and carefully shut the deceased man's eyes, his face having been caught in a permanent expression of utter terror and pain. Zargabaath figured he had paid his dues upon such a grisly death, no more need be asked of him. As he knelt over the body, trying to muster the energy to decide how to feel about all of this, a rough shove sent him nearly face first into Bergan's chestplate. Zargabaath righted himself quickly, drawing his sword and turning to face whatever had dared interrupt him.

Mist had spread from the frozen lake and now encircled him entirely, like an entite spread out flat to encircle him. The Mist was fickle, unpredictable; raw magicks at their most dangerous and potent. He took a step to the side so as to not tread on Bergan if he needed to flee, watching as the same fluid, sharp contouring edges began to try and form in the saturated air. The needles that glinted in the cold sunlight drew his mind to Bergan's swords. He lowered his blade as a thought struck him.

“Oh,” was all he could muster, but stopped himself from apologizing to what might have been a complete misinterpretation of the matter. He knelt down at the edge of the shallow, broad grave where Bergan had been buried, and for lack of any other tool remaining, began to claw at the frozen earth with his hands. Even with steel and leather, the cold expertly infiltrated its way to his skin, and soon his fingers were numb. Still he was compelled to continue, the dark earth breaking under his fingers stubbornly and staining the freshly fallen snow. 

At last he came upon the hilt of Bergan's larger blade, grasping it and struggling to pull it from the hard, frozen earth. It steadfastly refused to be torn from its grave by his hand alone, but Zargabaath was growing tired of his increasing passivity. His own actions at Rabanastre had surprised him, he would never have thought himself capable of such things. Still, in the heat of battle, greatness was forged; that was one of his superior's favorite lines to say again and again when Zargabaath was a young man and toiling to parry and avoid the blows from his training partner's blade.

He decided to persist, even though one tug after another yielded little but the occasional shift in the dirt. The Mist grew heavier as he continued to struggle, but it only sought to encircle him, no longer forming shapes or expelling powerful geysers. He had expected a little more warning, but as he suddenly flew back – sword in hand – and landed on his armored rear end, at least his persistence had gotten him somewhere. 

He brought the heavy weapon close to examine it, knocking off clumps of dirt and leftover earth that clung to it still. He had no fathomable idea how Bergan had trained himself to use something this heavy, but the late Judge had always pushed himself to his maximum potential. Zargabaath looked down at the sorry remnants of the man who once wielded the blade, and pondered on the cost of finding no satisfaction in being what he had been before the nethicite was set into his bones. 

A rough shove broke him out of his reverie, and he quickly set the sword upon Bergan's body, going back down to the shallow grave and continuing to dig. It took a few more minutes to find the smaller of the pair, but to his relief it was barely a struggle to pull this one from the earth. He carefully set it within Bergan's left hand, treating the armored limb as if it were porcelain that would shatter if handled carelessly. 

He sat alone, suffering the freezing winds on his face and placed a hand cautiously on Bergan's pauldron, letting it linger there. The Mists lay like a blanket over them both – finally fading back away – blown off without struggle as the Atomos returned and descended, landing closer to the grave site. The ramp lowered and Zargabaath stood, fixing on his helmet and walking to meet to the two Magi that disembarked to meet him.

“A prayer at least,” Zargabaath said above the calming winds. “His body is rife with magicks, the manufacted nethicite must be removed upon return to Archades, before he is to be buried. Keep me informed upon the situation.”

The Magi both bowed, waiting until Zargabaath had passed them by, entering the Atomos to wait for them to ferry Bergan's body aboard. Then they made their way to the cadaver and knelt down, beginning the spartan Archadian rituals for the deceased. The Judge watched them from the Atomos' interior, waiting for another reaction to occur once the Magi began their prayers and quiet chants. No such reaction came and the two carefully gathered Bergan in their arms, struggling to lift. Zargabaath felt foolish, quickly standing and rushing over to assist, taking Bergan's shoulders in his arms. He shouldn't have expected any man, Magi or Soldier, to be able to carry a fully armored Magister in addition to their own cumbersome attire.

The Magi supported Bergan's torso and legs as they brought him to the Atomos, one of them with his hands braced across the swords so they wouldn't fall off. Zargabaath was as careful as he could be, gently lowering Bergan's shoulders to the floor, the Magi setting the rest of him down in tandem. The ramp was raised, and the Atomos rose, beginning it's trajectory back to the Ifrit once again.

Zargabaath looked down at Bergan's body, removing his helm and letting out a long-suffering sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his brow. He rested his arms on his knees, leaning forward as he clasped his hands together in silent prayer. Zargabaath was not a religious man, out of all the Judge Magisters it was Ghis who had any regular practice in faith, but it nagged at him to do something, even if at the end of the day it meant nothing at all. After all, Bergan was dead. The prayer was more to comfort himself in the face of another dead comrade.


End file.
